


Bite My Tongue But Taste Your Blood

by My_Black_Crimson_Rose6



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Biting, Blood, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Multi, Rough Kissing, before the fall of Freelancer (before York and North's injury), this was going to be smut but then i let it sit for a month and a half
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4458338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Black_Crimson_Rose6/pseuds/My_Black_Crimson_Rose6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Washington was a guy who broke everything he touched. As he sighed in his helmet, that taste of blood on his tongue, he concluded that maybe it was only a matter of time that his relationship fell apart because of him too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bite My Tongue But Taste Your Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hawkheartedlion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkheartedlion/gifts).



**Nothing about it was slow, not a thing.**

Not when Wash ran at North, jumping and wrapping both legs and arms around the man and throwing both of their helmets to the floor. His hands unclasping the purple suit while the taller blond grasped his ass.

**It wasn’t gentle or _sweet_.**

Not when York joined in and bit at the blond’s neck, sucking one mark after the other into the skin. Not when North’s teeth bit and pulled at Wash’s lips—the blond moaned reaching back and fisting the brown hair.

**It wasn’t loving—not tender, no compassion.**

Wash fisting York’s hair as he kissed North again, plunging his tongue past the rows of teeth to tangle with the man’s tongue.

Wash was _frustrated_ ; was frustrated and it didn’t stem from it being sexual. He wanted to be pampered, to be taken care of and _used_. Used like he had a damn purpose—to feed their pleasure and in extension his own.

**_Not this time_. **

The love would come afterwards, when they’d make it back to one of their rooms and fall tangled on the bed. The love was for the tender kisses and gentle caress of skin. It wasn’t for right now, not when Wash wanted nothing more than to tear the skin from his lovers’ bodies and snarl out his frustrations.

He was a _soldier_ , a fucking _Freelancer_. He didn’t need to be coddled or babysat—he wasn’t sent out with them to be deadweight. He wasn’t just the _weapons expert_ he was the _damn backup_. Yet he couldn’t do that with his lovers questioning him, questioning his qualifications every time they were on a mission with him.

Questioning him with their arch of a brow or a little scoff or huff when Wash would question them—question what _they_ were doing. He needed to know, needed to _know_ where’d they be so if shit went sideways he could plan accordingly to get their asses out of there. They were the ones with the certain qualifications—the _exceptional skills_ in their field, the supposed best of the best.

Wash bit at the blond man’s lip, drawing blood and a cry of pain the man that stilled York and Wash was dropped. “Jesus Christ, Washington!” North hissed as he touched his bleeding lip. The crimson liquid dripping from his chin and onto Washington’s slate coloured armor.

York took hold of North, pulling him away from Wash and into better lighting. Pulling away his hand and hissing at the oozing path the blood was creating down his face. “That’s going to need stitches,” he pulled North along with him, casting Wash a glance as he pulled himself off the floor and watched his two older lovers leave the locker room without another word.

He took hold of his fallen helm, sliding it back overhead before taking hold of North’s and opening the man’s locker. He knew the man’s combination—knew _all_ of their locker combinations but he never had the need nor urge to ever use it.

Washington left the room without glancing back at the blood on the floor—he was _mad_. Mad at himself, mad at them. Maybe even a little mad at the Director himself. He’d have to request, formally request, that he avoid being deployed on missions with either men from now on. His frustrations on the field towards them have officially bled into their relationship and Wash refuses to have their romantic relationship suffer because they assume that he’s incapable of having their back when they need him the most.

He sighed, stilling his walking and sank down to the ground with his side pressed to the wall.

His mouth tasted of copper—like damn pennies that he and his friend Timmy used to dare each other to lick when they were six. He wanted to punch a hole in the ship, wanted to bite and kick and _scream_. Throw a fit like he was a small child again—act like how York and North would treat him at times.

He may be a fuck up of a soldier, he might break everything he touches—from his parents and the disappointment of him not joining the family business and never providing them with a grandchild they’ve always wanted, from his sister who watched him break three of his ribs and both arms, from his friends who grew sick of him. He might be a fuck up, but he was still a _soldier_ with a job.

He had his name up on a leader board that meant the world to everyone else but him.

Washington was a guy who broke everything he touched. As he sighed in his helmet, that taste of blood on his tongue, he concluded that maybe it was only a matter of time that his relationship fell apart because of him too.


End file.
